Hollow oddity
by The Rebellious Observer
Summary: His catharsis is not so much resignation as it is apathy; he can’t bring himself to care about anything. Caring always ends up hurting him, and another loss might just crush him beyond what he can take. One-sided DracoHarry slash.


Title: Hollow-oddity

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: One-sided Draco/Harry

Genre: General/Angst

Rating: PG-13

Type: Pseudo-ficlet. More of a really long drabble, actually.

Word count: 1,184

Notes: Harry's just a tad insane, yeah?

Summary: His catharsis is not so much resignation as it is apathy; he can't bring himself to care about anything. Caring always ends up hurting him, and another loss might just crush him beyond what he can take.

Harry is hollow.  
His sadnesses have scorched him dry and brittle-black and perfectly empty; all that's left to him is the sore blinking burn of eyes too tired and untaught to ever cry, and a quiet phantom-pain throbbing, faintly, in his heart when he least expects it—but that leaves quickly. He numbs himself to it.  
His catharsis is not so much resignation as it is apathy; he can't bring himself to care about anything.  
Caring always ends up hurting him, and another loss might just crush him beyond what he can take.  
  
Two weeks with the Dursleys, and he's been frightening them; there's something not quite _right_ in his dull, tired eyes—they're still the same, striking green, but they don't flash anymore, and he doesn't seem...how he was.  
He's like...a shell—a husk; a boy-body without the soul, like all his fire has burned itself out and left him damaged. Deficient.  
  
He doesn't backtalk—doesn't _talk_.  
In fact, he doesn't seem to do much at all, really; he cooks and cleans and does the gardening just like they tell him, but, when left to his own devices, he holes himself up in his room and stares at the cracks in the ceiling, and sends Hedwig out with pointless trivialities just to give her some exercise.  
  
The Dursleys do their worst, but even that's not enough, which is saying something.  
Harry doesn't snap and glare and count off the days in his out-of-date calendar; he doesn't itch with impatience to know the news, or delicately hoard his scalvenged rations.  
One day he just gets up and—walks away. Just like that.  
He has his wand and a jingling pouch of money sitting, snug, in his back-pocket, and he's been walking for ten minutes before he remembers that wizards can run away in _style_, so he holds out his wand hand and waits.  
  
He has the Knight bus drop him off five blocks from number 12, Grimmauld Place ("G'day, Neville!") and walks the rest of the way (it's a shady part of town, and he's got such a pretty face; he's propositioned twice by the time he reaches the end of the first block, and it's a good thing he's got his wand, or else he might be worried).  
  
Less than an hour later, Dumbledore's head is floating in the hearth, gently persuasive, but Harry won't budge.  
He won't go back; won't re-locate to the Order's new base; won't even allow Hogwarts house-elves to come help him out (Kreacher conveniently kicked to the curb with a carelessly thrown jacket tossed his way. And who knew it was so _simple_ to make such a jaded creature cry?)  
  
His things are sent to him soon enough and Hedwig returns shortly, and Harry spends his days ordered and entirely alone (except for Hedwig, of course—and the busy-body portraits on the walls, gathering dust).  
  
Mrs. Black screams and screams and screamsandscreamsand-won't-stop-fucking-_screaming_ all the bloody time, and Harry's ears ring.  
The Blacks' library is a wonderful source of interesting spells you'll never find on the Hogwarts curriculum—there's this nifty one that keeps painted people confined to their frames, and Harry tries it out on Mrs. Black's portrait-on-the-stairs, just before he _incendio_'s her right there. It works.  
  
The paint bubbles and runs and stinks up the house terribly; the parchment scorches and turns to crumbly-crisp ash, and Mrs. Black huddles in the corner of her frame, unable to flee, and _screams_ louder than ever—panicky-shrill shrieks that something without lungs ought not be able to make. And she burns.  
And then, at last, she finally shuts up.  
  
Harry quells the fire from spreading beyond the wall and returns to his reading, undisturbed, and for the rest of the summer the portraits are so well-behaved that Harry often forgets they're even there at all.  
  
School comes back, as it tends to do, and Harry shops for supplies with Ron and Hermione and pretends to be normal. Which is something he's _not_.  
  
Last week of the holiday spent with the Weasleys (Harry didn't remember them being quite so _loud_), and the familiar, frantic dash to the train station where they get there two-minutes-till, and Harry still feels. Nothing.  
He smiles woodenly and takes his cues, but—he just doesn't _care_. Pleasantries are so tiring.  
  
Ron and Hermione run off halfway through the trip to make their Prefect rounds through the cabins, and Harry's just polished off the last of a gooey-sweet apple tart—is headed to the loo to wash off the sticky residue the pastry left stuck to his hands, when Draco Malfoy steps out of the nearest cabin and runs right into him—his steady chest an unexpected barrier that Harry bumps into and bounces back from uncomfortably—wobbling—so he has to step back to keep from falling over completely.  
  
One look at that pale face is all it takes for electricity to crackle and shoot all though Harry's nerves like a live wire in a swimming pool; glaring white-gold hair gleaming boldly—tall boy with such sharp edges and the same senseless, sneering smirk, and Harry _feels_ his antipathy slam back into him like a punch, leaving him breathless and disoriented.  
  
"_Potter,_" hisses Malfoy, and that smooth, prickling drawl just sets something _off_.  
  
Anger, anger, crackling-fierce and familiar and so _unexpected_, and he _feels it_, he _feels it_, he finally feels _something_, after all that _nothing_, and—and—  
  
"Malfoy," he says, and his tone is _biting_; razor-tipped and searching for blood, and, oh, _God_, he missed this! He hadn't realized.  
  
"_Malfoy_, I. I _hate_ you. _I hate you_. _I hate you!_", and by then he's shouting it, and it looks like he's sort of scaring the Slytherin with this sudden vehemence.  
  
"I hate you," he says again, stepping forward—wrapping the words around himself like a child might cuddle with its worn baby blanket; warm and comforting.  
  
"Thank you," he breathes, reaching up and grabbing the Slytherin by his slick, styled blonde hair and tugging _down_, and kissing him.  
  
It's brief, but it's enough; enough for Harry to taste chocolate frogs and mint tea and something—something _else_, something good—in Malfoy's mouth, and then Malfoy is squawking, upset, and shoving Harry back violently, flat onto his ass (landing harshly on his back with a _thump_ and a _smack_).  
  
Harry crashes into the floor, and it _hurts_, but he's laughing; he's still clutching a few brilliant strands of Malfoy's bright hair—candied apple-guts clumping that fine stuff in his shaking hands—and Malfoy curses and looks alarmed.  
  
"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" Malfoy demands, and by that point Ron and Hermione are rushing up the aisle, and Harry can't stop _laughing_.  
  
"I hate you," Harry giggles; "Don't you know how beautiful that is?", and his sides are _aching_, he's laughing so hard.  
  
"You're crazy. You're _crazy_," spits Draco, and Harry agrees.  
  
"It helps," says Harry, tears leaking out onto his cheeks (so this is what they feel like? Harry hadn't known), and wants to kiss Malfoy again—then punch him in the face.


End file.
